


Tandem

by alienqueequeg



Category: The X-Files
Genre: 1980s, AU, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Student/Teacher, Alternate Universe - Yoga, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Smut, UST to RST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2020-05-16 14:21:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19319944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alienqueequeg/pseuds/alienqueequeg
Summary: In 1988, a young Fox Mulder tries out yoga after a difficult case takes a toll on him.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [scapegrace74](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scapegrace74/gifts).



> Michelle, thank you so much for this prompt! I immediately fell in love with the concept, and I had a lot of fun writing this. I hope you enjoy :)

Mulder knows within the first five minutes that this class was a terrible idea. A rotten, godawful idea and he hates himself for falling for Sofia’s propaganda. At the time, he could visualize it: a new and improved Mulder, enviably flexible and exuding inner peace. It sounded too good to be true. As Sofia explained the benefits over dinner, Mulder tried to forget the late-night stakeouts with Martinez waxing poetic about his wife’s newfound bendiness. She told him how she slept better at night, was slower to anger and craved healthier foods (prompting a deep sigh from her husband).

He’s not sure yoga is any match for his fucked up brain, but he needs something. Anything. It’s only a matter of time before he gets sloppy and someone gets hurt. The case is has been officially closed for weeks but remains wide open in Mulder’s brain, particularly in the middle of the night when he’s reliving those final, fateful minutes. He’s lived with insomnia for years, but this is unmanageable.

At the time, he considered the possibility of finding his own nice, bendy woman at the yoga class. He might not be in any shape for a relationship, but it couldn’t hurt to break this dry spell and figure out how to have casual sex for once. With him and women, it’s a desert or a storm.

As soon as he enters the hushed studio, it’s clear it’s not going to happen. They stare at him, putting him in his place. He’s an intruder in their space. Through the class, Mulder focuses on not accidentally hitting any of them with his overlong limbs rather than finding a mate. He doesn’t believe the receptionist who told him there were several openings. The room barely accommodates him, and he’s never been more resentful of his large frame.

Even if approaching any of the women wouldn’t be violating an implicit contract, there is another factor: every student pales in comparison to the instructor. Martinez suggested he ask for Melissa when he called the studio, explaining how hot she is—prompting a good-natured “I heard that!” from Sofia in the other room. Melissa’s classes were full, but Dana had some openings. Allegedly. He can’t imagine what Melissa looks like if she’s more attractive than Dana.

Dana is instructing everyone to bend over their knees in a deep hamstring stretch that brings awareness to years of tension wrought from running. She’s lost in concentration, looking at everyone and no one at the same time. Wisps of auburn hair escape her chignon to frame her face, and her loose black pants swirl around her hips as she moves. Her voice is hypnotic. As she instructs them to inhale and exhale into their poses, he feels like she’s speaking straight to his breath, willing his lungs to fill to full capacity and empty completely.

She tells them to press back into downward-facing dog, and her pale blue camisole shrugs up to expose smooth, taut skin. Mulder’s reasonably sure he’s not doing it right. His knees don’t want to straighten, and a glance in the mirror confirms that his back is too rounded. They always seem to come back to this damn pose. Though, he doesn’t mind the way it makes Dana’s pants cling as she presses her hips up.

When they exhale to cobra, she meets his eyes. Something passes between them, but he’s not sure what. He hopes he hasn’t been caught checking her out.

His fears become a reality as he tries his best to balance in tree pose, digging the bottom of his foot into his thigh. He almost topples into a woman next to him who glares at him but manages to remain still.

As they reach the cool-down, he can’t deny that he feels good, but he has no desire to repeat the experience. He can think of a thousand things he’d rather be doing than self-consciously moving his body in counterintuitive positions and sweating in places he didn’t know he had sweat glands. Sofia made it clear he needs to give it at least two chances before giving up, but there’s no way the class setting would ever make him less anxious. He’ll find a tape, clear out his living room, practice at home. _Anything_ else. He’s about to leave—forever—until something occurs to him.

“Hi,” he says lamely as he approaches the teacher.

She looks up at him, her headphones nestled around her neck. Their height disparity gives him a clear shot down her cleavage, and he tries not to notice.

She’s younger than he’d thought. A student, if the overstuffed backpack with the anti-Reagan pin is any indication. When she’s teaching, her quiet authority lends her an extra ten years. In a good way.

“Hi,” she says. “First class?”

“I know it might come as a shock considering my impressive skills, but I’m a yoga virgin. Or at least, I was.”

She gives him a warm, closed mouth smile. “It gets easier the more you do it.”

“That’s what they say.”

“What can I do for you?” Her voice is pleasant but wary. He recognizes the tone of a woman used to inappropriate advances.

“Um, I was just wondering…” He rubs the back of his neck and hopes his grin is charming. “Do you teach private sessions?”

“No.” Her expression turns glacial. Mulder wants to crawl under the floorboards to escape that penetrating glare.

“I wasn’t suggesting anything,” he stammers. “I just don’t think the group class is…for me. I really want to learn. I need to. I haven’t slept in a month and—” He stops, mortified. “I’ll get out of your hair. Sorry.”

As he moves to leave, he feels cool fingers on his upper arm.

“It’s okay.” She laughs. “I’ve been asked that before, but they’re never interested in yoga.”

“I really want to learn,” he repeats dumbly.

“You mentioned that.” The corner of her mouth curls. “I might be able to arrange something, but my schedule is packed.”

“Really? That would be great.” He hates how overeager he sounds to his own ears. Something about her unbalances him, though he doesn’t usually have a problem talking to attractive women.

She puts a pen between her teeth and rifles through a backpack full of voluminous textbooks until she finds her day planner. Every 30-minute increment is filled with neat handwriting.

“You weren’t kidding about being busy,” he says, hoping it’s okay that he peeks.

She looks up at him as though she forget he was there, pulls the pen from her mouth. “I graduate from med school in July.”

He’s not surprised. She has an intelligent look and the air of an overachiever. “And after graduation? You open up the world’s first doctor’s office slash yoga studio?”

“I start my forensic pathology residency this fall.” She flips the page.

“No kidding. You’re not like any of the forensic pathologists I work with.”

She narrows her eyes. “Less male?”

“No. Less weird.” She laughs, and it seems he is forgiven.

“What do you do that involves working with forensic pathologists? Are you a cop?” She asks in a way that suggests she might have a joint stashed in her backpack.

“I’m an FBI agent.”

For the first time, he’s impressed her.

“What section?” she asks.

“Violent Crimes.”

“Hence the insomnia.”

She gives him a lingering look, and he’s convinced she knows it all: the sweat-soaked nightmares and watching the sunrise from his couch, the way the walls melt when his eyes relax, the shadows that sometimes dart in and out of the corners of his vision. And worst of all, the what-if questions that ricochet in his head, a perpetual motion machine of anxiety.

“I can squeeze you in after my advanced class this Friday. At the studio,” she adds pointedly. “No house calls. And it will cost you.”

“Name the price, I’ll be there.”

They exchange information on strips of notebook paper harvested from her med school detritus and shake hands. Her grip is firm.

“Nice to meet you, Fox.”

He surprises himself when he says, “You can just call me Mulder.”

“Is that an FBI affectation?” Her light tone makes up for her somewhat rude words.

He can still hear it in the voices of his past: _Fox_ , dripped like honeyed poison in his ear, weaponized against him. “We g-men like to embrace the cliches.”

“See you Friday, g-man.”

She slings her backpack over her shoulders and flips her headphones over her ears. As she leaves, the pale imitation of a Talking Heads song drifts after her like perfume.


	2. Chapter 2

When Mulder arrives for their first private lesson, Dana is demonstrating a backbend to a lingering student, an older woman with short-cropped gray hair and wiry muscles that would make her a formidable opponent despite her age. He and the student both watch, rapt, as Dana tucks around herself. Head between ankles, her arms reach toward her front to complete the circle. She’s explaining her movements, but her words are barely audible from where Mulder is standing.

After unfolding herself, Dana guides the student through the same steps. With Dana’s hands on her waist, the woman releases back in a trust fall, allows her hips to be adjusted until the perfect pose is achieved. Mulder wonders if Dana will be as hands-on with him and finds himself getting warm.

“Sorry about that,” she says as the student leaves, gesturing for him to lay his mat down.

Mulder crosses his legs. “I’m all yours, teach. Bend me into a pretzel.”

He catches a flicker of a smile. “On the contrary,” Dana says as she sits to face him. “Are you familiar with the practice of restorative yoga?”

“Enlighten me.”

“Restorative yoga takes away many of the challenges of traditional yoga by focusing on passive floor poses, sometimes held for as long as twenty minutes. As you can imagine, the challenges are more mental than physical. And while it’s beneficial for all levels, it’s an excellent entry point for the novice.” He touches his chest, mock-wounded, but she ignores him and continues. “It also happens to be the best form of yoga for stress and insomnia. It’s recommended for first responders or anyone in similarly high-stress jobs. Its potential for treating or preventing burnout is widely recognized by the medical community.” She leaves a pregnant pause. “The class you took was intended for all experience levels and focuses—flexibility, core conditioning, relaxation, and so on. The flow I will guide you through today will have an emphasis on restorative poses but don’t worry, I won’t have you hold them for twenty minutes.”

“Much appreciated.”

“Close your eyes,” she instructs.

In the warmup, she spends more time guiding his breathing—five counts in, five counts out—until he feels his blood pressure drop and his lungs unconsciously respond to her commands.

For the rest of the hour, he forgets about Mandi Jakobson. He forgets about the case and the way Martinez looks at him now—the concern that prompted a thousand pity-dinner invites. The world consists only of him and Dana. The soothing cadence of her voice, their synchronized breath, and the ocean sounds on the stereo. She guides him to bend and twist, to hold his poses and breathe into them as his muscles release. Despite operating on a couple of stolen hours of sleep on his couch, he forgets he’s tired. He’s electrified, jolted awake.

He allows himself to indulge in his crush. There’s no point in denying it; his guts squirm when she looks at him. He mirrors her movements, running his hands down his legs in the forward bends and seated hamstring stretches and wondering what she feels like under her own hands. 

She finishes the class by walking him through a guided meditation that involves consciously relaxing every muscle in his body.

As she advised, he repeats the meditation in bed that night. He lays on his back, having talked himself out of attempting to fall asleep in front of the television. He can hear her voice as though she’s in the room: “relax your neck…relax your shoulders…relax your belly…” By the time he gets to “relax your toes”—her voice in his head still slurs the “s” a little bit—his eyelids are heavy and, for once, he feels as tired at midnight as he did at noon that day.

* * *

As a tried and true insomniac, Mulder only needs one good night’s sleep to start feeling human again.

Martinez notices the difference. He invites Mulder for dinner out of politeness, an afterthought. He declines, as tempting as Sofia’s famous chile rellenos might be.

Dana doesn’t miss much either.

“You seem better rested,” she observes as she spreads the mat out in front of him. He can see straight down her shirt.

“I owe it all to you, teach.” His tone is flippant, but a flicker of something on her face tells him that she picks up on the truth of it.

She explains the biological changes that occur when someone starts doing yoga for the first time and enjoys lecturing him so much that she continues through their warmup, pausing only to give him instructions. She talks about GABA and inflammation and biochemical changes from arousal to relaxation as they twist their spines and float their arms and cross their legs the wrong way. She bats his leg when he fails to breathe, having been distracted from basic motor functions by this unusual, beautiful woman. Breathing, she explains, is the most essential part.

“You’re not like any yoga teachers I know,” he blurts.

“You mean like my sister?” She continues when he looks at her blankly. “Melissa. She owns the place. I thought you knew her; most people here do. Lean back into camel.”

They stretch one arm to the ceiling and stare up, arching their backs and looking behind them.

“So this is how you put yourself through med school?”

“I’m only part-time. Rest in child’s pose for a moment and then press back into downward dog.”

“Always with this pose,” he grumbles. “I feel like I’m doing it wrong.”

His muscles quake as she gets to her feet. He’s in for it.

“You need to lift your hips.” Her hands on his thighs, tugging him up just a little bit. “Straighten your legs but keep your knees soft. And keep your back straight.”

To push down his back, she runs her hand down his spine from the bottom of his shirt to between his shoulder blades.

“Keep your head down but your neck straight. You’re trying to form a triangle with your body.”

Her palm grazes the back of his neck and, so briefly he could have imagined it, runs her fingers through his hair. She clears her throat, regarding his form. “Much better,” she declares.

When they press up into cobra, he sees pink splotches on her chest. Her dilated pupils remind him of his former roommate’s cat after having its way with a sprig of fresh catnip.

This night, he doesn’t wake to nightmares. Much worse. He wakes—rock hard and flooded with dread—to the most vivid erotic dream he can ever remember having.

“Fuck,” he says to the dark room.

* * *

Dana eyes him as they get settled in for the warmup. “You’re quiet today. Have you been sleeping?”

“Better than ever,” he answers without thinking and suppresses a wince.

He vacillated all weekend between canceling and going through with this session. The idea of spending an hour in sweatpants ignoring her subtle flirtations and trying not to think of his dream sounded unbearable.

But the yoga has been working. He’s sleeping better. Not every night, but there are good nights mixed in with the bad, and that’s enough to make him functional. He no longer sees shadows out of the corners of his eyes, and he hasn’t wondered if he’s safe to drive—while stone-cold sober—since they started. He’s no longer walking a tightrope at work, teetering over the kind of mistakes you can’t take back.

It would be foolish to let an attraction undermine all his progress. Even the kind of attraction that results in a nocturnal tumescence he hadn’t experienced since he was a young teenager who’d just discovered Jane Seymour.

As he settles into the now-routine warmup, his anxieties are driven away by the soothing cadence of her voice. His blood pressure drops with every long exhale. He’ll be fine.

She keeps shooting him funny looks. Something _has_ shifted between them, and she doesn’t miss much. He tries to make an effort to be as chatty as he was last time, but everything he says falls flat.

“You must not be working me very hard,” he complains at one point. “I haven’t been sore from a session since the group class.”

She raises an eyebrow. “You want more of a challenge?”

“Bring it on.”

She instructs him to press his foot against hers. They thread their fingers, his hands dwarfing hers. She giggles when he dips his toes around hers and tugs him forward until he cries uncle.

“Go on,” she says impatiently when he doesn’t reciprocate.

He pulls her forward. Her shirt is looser today, and it billows as she leans toward him. He tries not to notice her breasts being held back by her sports bra. Even when he leans back as far as he can go, he still can’t test the limits of her muscles as she did with him.

They rock back, and he’s again suspending in front of her. Her face is entirely unreadable—communicating a dozen conflicting emotions. Her eyes rest somewhere between his lower lip and his jaw. Her breaths are sharp.

“My muscles are shredded,” he groans when they sit up straight.

She regards him, amused. “I’ve got more where that came from.”

She must be flirting with him. Right?

“Bring it on,” he says.

She instructs him to spread his legs, and again they touch their feet. As before, they take turns pulling each other forward. Every muscle in his back releases and his inner thighs scream at him. He can smell a hint of her sweat as he leans over her, underlying grapefruit-scented skin. Her grip is strong and ruthless, and he’s not sure how much more abuse his inner thigh muscles can take.

“Cross your legs,” she instructs. “This pose will transition us into our cool down and meditation.”

She moves her mat toward him and sits close enough their knees touch. They wind their arms together, and she tells him when to arch and round his spine. Her steamy breath hits his face as she exhales before lifting her head back like she’s in the throes of ecstasy.

He’s close enough to see a crumb of mascara under her eye, the way the tendons in her neck shift and, oh, God, the hard pebbles of her nipples through her top. She arches her back, pushing her chest closer to him.

He’s instantly transported back to his dream.

_Dana catches him staring at her tits. “Go on,” she says, nodding and smiling. He cups her breasts in his hands, kisses her mouth, moves down to her neck as she moans beneath him. “Fuck me, Mulder,” she gasps in his ear. “Fuck me.” He asks her how she wants it, tacking on a “baby” at the end. She turns and somehow—dream logic—she’s naked, her yoga clothes nowhere to be seen. She stretches her hands out in front of her, lifts her ass and dips her chest down toward the mat. Puppy pose, he thinks before sliding into her tight heat._

He doesn’t want to look down. He shifts his hips, but he’s pretty sure he just made it more visible. Jesus Christ, he’s a fuckup. He’s never going to forgive himself—or his body—for this.

“Inhale and straighten your spine.”

Her posture is military straight. She studies him, no doubt registering the terror on his face. Their arms are still wound together, and their knees are touching, and this only makes him feel like more of a creep. She tries to hide her reaction when her eyes dart down, but he catches a subtle jolt. He hopes she doesn’t notice that his palms are sweating against her upper arms. Her nipples are still hard, maybe even more pronounced.

His mouth goes dry as he braces himself for disgust or anger or worse, fear. Her eyes flicker up to his face and back down. She licks her lips before looking away.

They unwind their arms. For the briefest moment, it looks like she’s going to reach for it.

“Exhale to child’s pose,” she says.


	3. Chapter 3

He’s been in a good mood all week; even Martinez commented on it. After what happened last class, he’s confident there was something between them. _She licked her lips._

But when he sees her number on his phone, his heart sinks. There’s only one reason she’d be calling: to cancel. Probably because he misread the signals between and…He doesn’t want to think about how she must be feeling towards him now.

“It’s me.”

“Hey, you,” he says carefully.

She sighs. “Sorry to do this so last minute…the thermostat at the studio is broken, and Missy’s canceled all the classes. I can still teach you if you want, but it’s like twenty degrees in there.”

“I’ll pass.” He tries to keep the relief out of his voice. She seems genuinely regretful. “Unless you know some unique benefits from practicing yoga in a coat.”

“Can’t say I do,” she replies. “It should be back up tomorrow, but I don’t have any availability.”

“No problem. Are we still on for next week?” he asks hopefully.

“Sure.” There’s a long silence between them before she finally breaks it. “The thermostat isn’t broken at my apartment.”

“That’s good to hear,” he says slowly.

“And we have enough floor space to accommodate two people practicing.”

“Are you suggesting a house call? I thought those were strictly forbidden.”

“I’m willing to make an exception this once. Besides, you’re an FBI agent. I’ll be safer with you around.”

Mulder does a happy dance.

“What was that?” she asks.

“Nothing,” he mumbles, rooting around on his desk for a spare sheet of paper to take down her address.

* * *

He shouldn’t be surprised by the herbal smells and tapestries pinned to the walls considering the New Age-y decorations in the yoga studio. Still, it doesn’t feel like her—she who eschews spa music for ocean sounds and never makes him “om” or “Namaste.”

“It’s my sister’s apartment,” she explains as he takes it all in. “I’m over there.”

He peers down the hall to see the sliver of a cozy, monochrome bedroom. It’s unclear if she’s illustrating how the apartment doesn’t match her personal style, or if she’s trying to make it known where her bedroom is.

They spread their mats in the expanse of hardwood floor in the living room. On one side, a loveseat and armchair sit in front of a fireplace, but the rest of the room has been left sparse, presumably for this purpose. Framed photos distract him. Dana and her sister with their matching autumnal hair and clear-eyed beauty. A menagerie of ginger children, a military-uniformed father and a kind-eyed mother haloed with brunette curls.

When he forces himself to stop openly snooping, she’s seated and watching him patiently. He sits and crosses his legs, feeling overlarge and entirely ungraceful next to her.

“Tandem or solo?”

He considers. “It might be the best use of our time to focus on moves I can practice on my own.”

She flicks an eyebrow. “Suit yourself.”

“But on the other hand, I won’t have many opportunities to practice tandem.”

“Don’t sell yourself short.”

They laugh together, and he feels himself relaxing despite the intense scrutiny he feels under her eyes. He’s not sure her intentions for this session, but he’s basking in relief that he hasn’t screwed everything up.

She guides him through a new warmup, their backs pressed together. The bottom of her head tucks between his shoulder blades, and he wonders if their height difference compromises the effectiveness of the poses. Still, they twist and lean, sliding their bodies against each other. He feels her ribcage expand as she inhales.

As the poses start to intensify, he hopes she doesn’t notice how damp he’s getting under his arms, the slick of sweat down his back that must be darkening his grey t-shirt.

It’s not until they reach the end of their session and she repeats the position that caused his erection last time that he’s certain: the attraction is mutual. He catches her glancing down at his crotch as she rounds her back and dips her head.

When they sit up straight, they are both reluctant to unwind their limbs. She gives him a long look, her fingertips lingering on his arm as she untangles herself from him. She looks away. He tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. She tilts her head up to meet his eyes again. Her gasp is barely audible, her lips parted. Feeling bolder, he strokes her head, lingering at the nape of her neck.

When he starts to lean forward, he’s surprised to be stopped by a thumb to his lips. He understands what she’s telling him without words: finish the last portion of the session, but he has implicit permission to kiss her properly when it’s over.

She takes him through a couple more floor poses and a shorter cool-down. No full-body relaxation meditation, just deep breathing and mindfulness. Ironic that she’s instructing him to let his thoughts drift away when all he can think of is her and what’s going to happen when their hour is up.

He circles her pinkie with his and squeezes. She squeezes back.

Somehow, he’s both serene and giddy as she instructs him to roll to his side and sit up. He takes his time opening his eyes and startles as he finds her kneeling in front of him, much closer than he’d expected. Her gaze is somewhere down at his lips, and he watches her chest rise and fall, oddly paralyzed to make his move.

Dana waits for a beat before muttering, “Oh, for fuck’s sake.” She sits up on her knees, leans over him and descends on his mouth.

Her lips are just as soft and plush as he’d imagined, but she tastes even sweeter. He grabs the back of her head, steadies her mouth against his as he uncrosses his legs, pressing his chest against hers. He’s hard against her belly. He’s about to pull back, afraid it’s too much too soon, but she’s rubbing his length with her body.

She pulls back, their foreheads touching. She pants softly, and he inhales her breath. He hisses as she grips his cock. Through two layers of fabric, her touch is almost painfully pleasurable.

When she tugs at his shirt, he obeys and shrugs it over his head, grateful his deodorant seems to be holding up.

She kisses him again, this time, one hand on his cock and the other mapping the contours of his chest. He’s dizzy from her. From her beauty and her intensity in equal measure. There’s a depth, a sincerity to her need that overwhelms him. It’s too much. _She’s_ too much.

He nudges her on her back. Congratulates himself for talking himself out of a corpse pose joke. Licks his lips as he grabs her breasts, runs his hands down the length of her body, everywhere he can reach. Palms her between her legs to find damp heat. She whimpers.

She’s staring, gape-mouthed. “Breathe,” he mocks, playfully.

“Shut up,” she says and pulls him down for another kiss.

When he thumbs her clit through her pants, she spasms like he’s electrocuted her, all cheekiness gone. The corner of his mouth twitches in triumph.

He pushes her shirt over her sports bra, and she finishes the job, her breasts spilling out. Yanks her pants down, scratching her as he claws at the fabric, ensuring he’s removing all barriers to her. He takes her in: her breathless, flushed form, vibrating with anticipation. Pink, swollen lips.

Her knees fall open as he spreads her legs. He knows how malleable her body is; he’s spent hours admiring her form by now. But feeling the marvels of her body under his grip, it makes his cock twitch and his heart cramp.

She guides his hands over her breasts as he parts her lips with his tongue and drinks of her. Yelps when he makes contact, unconsciously tightening his grip on her chest. Sighs as she adjusts to the feel of his mouth on her.

She loops her legs around his shoulders and locks her ankles behind his head like a spider pinning its prey. Confirms she does have a thing for his hair as she plunges her fingers and twists, sending tingles of pain from his scalp down his neck and a fresh rush of blood to his erection.

He doesn’t get a chance to use his fingers. She bucks against his head as he tries to match her energy until finally, she settles back with a sigh.

He wipes his mouth and can’t help grinning at her dopey smile. She drags him up by the hair for another kiss.

“You’re really good at that,” she pants before swiping her tongue back in his mouth. “I like you.”

“I have my uses.”

She rolls her hips against his straining cock. “So it appears.”

“I don’t have a rubber,” he groans, amazed it hasn’t occurred to him until this moment.

“Of course you don’t,” she says mildly. He isn’t sure if he should be offended.

Dana sweeps her clothes into her arms as she stands, leading him to the bedroom before he has a chance to grab his t-shirt. A problem for a later time.

“Two?” he asks when she lays out the condoms.

“In case one breaks,” she answers in that teacher-voice of hers. “You should always carry two.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Closing the distance between them, she lightly runs her finger down his chest, thumbs the v of his hips before pulling down his pants and boxers with careful consideration to his swollen member.

She sinks to her knees, strokes him gently, admires him before tentatively lapping at the head of his dick, dampening him for her mouth. Looks up at him, a mouth full of his cock as he pushes back strands of hair falling from her rapidly loosening chignon.

She’s impatient. Only wants a taste before sitting at the edge of her bed, biting her lip as she watches him put on the condom. When he slides himself down her slit, she’s even wetter than when his mouth left her.

She lifts her legs as he enters her, puts her feet on his chest. Doesn’t resist as he leans over her, pushing her legs back even further until her feet are near her head.

“Show off,” he teases as he pulls back, the next thrust making her yelp.

She returns her feet to his chest and starts to push him away as punishment.

“I like it when you show off for me,” he says in a low voice.

Her eyes widen as he grips her ankles and puts her feet back near her head, thrusts more urgently. The sound of her wet pussy fills the room.

She feels too good. His balls start to tighten, and he pulls back, slows his movements. She takes the hint. Rolls him on his back. Straddles him as he reorients himself on his back. Her hands keep pressing down on his chest for leverage as she starts a slow grind with her hips. Works her way up until she’s bouncing on him, riding him with a raw urgency.

When she falls over him, a curtain of freed hair falling around his face, he stabilizes himself with his hands on her ass and pulls her as close as she can get. Thinks, he could fall in love with this woman. He probably is already, a little, but he’s a long way from admitting that to himself much less her.

Her hands cradle his face, her thumbs at his temples. There’s such warmth and affection in her eyes that, for the first time, he understands why people talk about sex being healing. She doesn’t look away as he reaches the point of inevitability and when he opens his eyes again, after emptying into her, she's still watching him. She cups his jaw and lowers her lips against his, keeps him inside her a little longer than comfortable.

After she pulls on her robe and slips out to the bathroom, he can’t help but surrender to the gravitational pull of sleep.

* * *

“Well, well, well,” says an unfamiliar voice. Mulder startles awake.

“Missy!” Dana protests from where she’s sitting on the floor, back against the bed.

His eyes focus on the image of a pretty woman wearing a floral dress and a black choker. Even if he didn’t recognize her from the photos, the hair would be enough of a clue as to their relation. The color is the same, but Melissa’s curls look far more meticulously styled.

“Is this the student you told me about? Whatever you’re doing for his insomnia seems to be working.”

“Go away, Missy.” Dana’s voice is plaintive, a regression in the manner of adult siblings. It gives Mulder a pang.

“This one _is_ cute. I was beginning to think you don’t know the meaning of the word.”

Dana looks left and right, ostensibly for something to throw, but she keeps her bedroom neat, and the only items in reach are textbooks and Mulder’s boxers.

Melissa holds her hands up in surrender and shuts the door with an exaggerated carefulness.

“You think I’m cute?”

Dana regards him. “Don’t let it get to your head.”

As he climbs out of bed, she presses his clothes against his chest, like he was about to start walking around the apartment naked in front of her sister.

His body feels sticky, and he badly needs to take a piss.

“Mind if I use your shower?”

Dana provides him a fresh towel from the linen closet as Melissa watches them from the kitchen, smiling vaguely.

When he passes back through the living room, freshly showered and smelling like Dana, Melissa extends a slender arm from the couch, holding out his t-shirt. “Looking for this?”

“Thanks.” He slips the shirt over his head. “I’ll head out after I say bye to Dana.”

“Nonsense. The snowstorm has been getting worse. You should spend the night.”

When Melissa looks at him, he gets the same unnerving feeling that she sees right through him, just as he does with her sister. Yet she seems to be giving him early approval. He’s flattered.

“I wouldn’t want to impose.”

“It’s not an imposition, it’s an invitation” she insists. “Stay for her.”

They both turn their heads to Dana’s bedroom where she is still sprawled on the floor, deep in concentration and gnawing on her pen.

An hour later, he’s sitting stiffly on the loveseat next to Dana, sipping herbal tea. The tea has a wintery spice blend that warms him, not that he needs that. Between the crackling fire and the hot little thing nuzzling him, he’s never been more toasty in his life.

Melissa sits on the armchair, her legs folded beneath her. “Dana tells me you’re an FBI agent.”

Mulder nods, and a moment of silent, indecipherable communication passes between the sisters.

Melissa takes a long sip from her tea and watches him from over the lip. “You must see so much horror.”

“You learn to cope,” he says carefully.

“By taking yoga classes, for instance.”

“For instance,” he agrees.

“Do any of your fellow agents do the same?”

“None that I know of,” he replies with a shrug.

“Have you found it beneficial?”

Dana’s giving him a “you don’t need to answer her” look, and he responds with a reassuring smile.

In explaining how valuable the lessons have been, he finds himself telling them everything about the last couple of months. It’s more than he’s confided in Dana, more than he’s confided in anyone in one sitting. He tells them about the case and all the dead little girls, how he’d shown up just a few minutes too late. Mandi Jakobson’s blood was still warm. He tells them about the nightmares, how he was always going down that same corridor. Most of the time, it plays out like it did in reality. Other times, he finds different people laying bloody, just like poor Mandi. His partner. His family. And he tells them about the relief he’s experienced thanks to his lessons. How he wasn’t sure he could cut in the FBI if he couldn’t get this under control.

Dana’s eyes are wet, and he catches a tremble in her lower lip. He hopes she doesn’t start crying; he’s sure it would elicit a similar response in him.

“You’re troubled,” Melissa says with confidence, setting her cup down and reaching to touch his knee. “But you have a good heart. I can see how much you care for them.”

“For who?”

Dana stiffens as Melissa says, “For the lost little girls.”

“Missy…”

She ignores her sister and continues, “You carry so much guilt. You never stop trying to save them. But you’re really trying to save her, aren’t you?”

“Melissa, enough,” Dana snaps. He’s not sure if she’s trying to protect his fragile psyche or irritated by her sister “doing her thing.” Probably both.

“It’s okay,” he says to Dana before turning to Melissa. “Great profile. We could use the likes of you in Violent Crimes.”

“I wouldn’t fit into the culture.” There’s a subtle bite to her words, reminiscent of her sister.

“You’re right,” he agrees. “And you’re right about what you said. I was twelve when it happened.”


	4. Chapter 4

“I’ll call you,” were the last words out of her mouth after a lingering kiss at her front door.

She doesn’t call the next day or the day after. He tells himself he’ll try her on day three, but he can’t bring himself to dial. He knows what her silence means, but he’d like to have one more night with the possibility of _them_ before reality slaps him in the face.

He feels foolish for getting his hopes up, but how could he not? That night felt like the beginning of something. Now, he feels the mortification of his oversharing like a rash. And his body aches for her.

Sleep isn’t coming any time soon, so he settles on the couch with a bottle of beer. Flips through some channels until he flips to an edited-for-television _Marathon Man_. Roy Schneider fights off a bad guy with a garrote, and the rapid editing sucks him into the action.

But he'd forgotten about the beautiful redhead from the library.

He thinks of how perfectly Dana felt, how neatly her body fit against his. Like they are an asymmetrical matching set. How he could feel her need, a desire that ran on a deeper current. He was used to women purring in his ear and wrapping them around their fingers. He was used to being a pet.

Dana was different. She gave something of herself in her own way.

He knows it was good for her, too. Why wouldn't she want that again? 

He takes a gulp of beer.

Roy Schneider appears bloodied at Dustin Hoffman’s front door. As he lets out his last breath and fails to deliver his dying message, the phone rings.

Before Mulder even gets his name out, he’s on his feet and pulling up his jeans, phone tucked between ear and shoulder. There’s only one reason he’d be getting a call at this time of night.

But the voice on the other end doesn’t belong to his partner or the A.D. It’s high and clear and feminine. It warms his cheeks.

“Did I wake you?” Dana asks.

“Uh, no. Wide awake.” He slowly sits down.

“I had a feeling you might be.”

“Is something wrong?” Mulder twists the cable in his fingers.

“No.” She pauses, sighs. “I’ve spent all day at the library and I over-caffeinated.”

“Do you want to come over?”

“I’d like that,” she says. “Are you alone?”

Cutting right to the chase.

He springs to action as soon as he hangs up the phone. Busts a couple moves to release some of the energy he suppressed during their short call and sets to tidying.

The apartment desperately needs fresh air, but it’s snowing outside. He overcompensates by turning on the heat as snowflakes shoot in gusts over his desk.

At the last minute, he remembers to hide the _Hot Yoga Babes_ tape. She might believe him if he told her it was purchased in the previous year—true—but he has no defense for why it’s sitting on his VCR.

Her knock is confident but muted, considerate of the neighbors. He opens the door to see her shifting awkwardly, her hands in her peacoat pockets. There are spots where snowflakes freshly melted. Her hair falls out of a messy ponytail, and her nose is bright pink.

“Welcome to my humble abode.” He gestures her to the living room, where a gust of snow is currently blowing toward his carpet. He rushes to shut the window. She watches him, amused, as the the hot air from the heating vent shifts her hair. He runs back to turn down the thermostat, then turns off the muted television where Laurence Olivier was asking, “Is it safe?”

“Can I get you something to drink?”

She shakes her head and lets him take her coat. She’s wearing a threadbare Rumours t-shirt over pale jeans.

“Marathon Man? I refused to go to the dentist for three years after I saw that movie. My mom brings it up whenever she sees Dustin Hoffman.”

“Just trying to set the mood.”

She laughs and inches her way toward him. Puts her hands on his waist. “The mood here seems to be ‘just moved in.’”

“I’m in the unpacking process,” he admits, as they look into the dark expanse of his bedroom with all its boxes.

“How long have you lived here?” she asks, twisting the bottom of his shirt in her fingers. Her face is almost touching his chest.

“Long enough,” he says. Wraps her ponytail around his hand, enjoying its silky softness. “I’ve been thinking about getting some fish. Maybe you can help me pick them out.”

She doesn’t respond. Kisses his chest. He realizes she’s not meeting his eyes. There’s a melancholy in her expression that gnaws at him. He knows it will keep gnawing at him until he figures it out. Figures her out. Her lips brush the stubble on his neck. She nips at him.

He lets her topple him back until he’s sprawled on the couch. He pulls his shirt off as she undresses, standing between his knees. Still looking everywhere but directly at him. She focuses her attention on his cock instead.

Her movements are languid. He lets himself get carried away in sensation as she works his shaft expertly, stopping only to run her hot little tongue across his balls.

When he starts to get close, she turns away from him, bends down and hands him a condom from her jeans pocket. She’s exposed in front of him. He touches her and finds her wet. She stabilizes herself with a hand on the floor. Clenches around him as he gently fucks her with two fingers.

He expects her to turn and straddle him like she did last time. Instead, she backs up on his lap and sinks down on him, after verifying he’s wearing the condom. Using her hands on his knees for leverage, she rides him. Still, it drives him a little crazy that she’s turned away from him. He pulls her back against his chest, one hand making a valiant effort to grab both of her breasts at the same time, the other smearing her wetness on her clit. She shudders on him, a ripple that passes from shoulders to cunt. The air empties from her lungs as she melts into him. He holds her tighter, wills her to come. He can’t tell if she’s getting close or if she’s just that responsive. His fingers start to cramp, but he powers through until she’s biting her fist to stifle her cries.

In keeping with her disturbing desire to face away from him, he rolls their bodies. Dana claws at the top of the couch, and he puts his hands over hers. They thread their fingers together. He lays his body against her, kisses her neck, her cheek, behind her ear. His cock explores between her legs, bobbing against her inner thigh. When she sticks her ass out, it reminds him so much of his dream he has a moment of deja vu. But unlike his dream, he gets to keep going after he slides inside her. She squeezes his fingers and rolls back her hips to meet his.

They move in perfect concert.

* * *

Just as he remembers, she fits neatly in his arms. She curls into herself as he tucks around her, absently strokes her nipple through his t-shirt. He lifts his feet to touch hers. They are folded into the extra fabric from his pajama bottoms.

“We should do this more often,” he says, kissing the crown of her head.

She’s silent. Immobile.

“Dana?” That gnawing in his gut returns.

She sighs, her breath tickling his hand. “I’m not good at this kind of thing.”

“I would beg to differ,” he deflects, kissing her neck through her hair and wondering if this is the last night he’ll get to do this.

“You know that’s not what I mean,” she says, exasperated. “I’m finishing my medical degree. Then the residency. I’ve been down this road before, and it doesn’t work.”

“What road is that?” A prickle creeps down his arms.

She turns and looks at him directly for the first time. He's been craving that all night, but now he wishes she would turn away, so intense is her scrutiny.

“The one where you expect a girlfriend that has time for you and—”

“Who said anything about a girlfriend?” Mulder goes hot and cold at the same time, the whiplash of having his feelings confirmed while knowing he might be losing her.

“Oh,” she says, shaking her head briefly. “Wow. I’m an idiot.” She sucks her lips.

“No. Not an idiot. I didn’t know you…” He gulps. “This doesn’t feel casual to me. Either.”

He takes her hand, presses her fingers to his lips. Sees a tremor of something pass through her.

She says, “I want to do this again.”

“So let’s do it again.” He kisses the tip of her nose. “And again after that. We don’t have to call it anything.”

She visibly relaxes. “So, what? I keep calling you midnight after drinking too much coffee?”

“I could always use the company.”

“And the help with your insomnia.” He finally gets a smile from her.

“You’re doing a pretty bad job of that so far.” He jerks his head toward the alarm clock. 3:12 AM. “Not that I’m complaining.”

“But you need your beauty rest,” she says. “Tomorrow’s a big day.”

“It is?”

“We have some fish to pick out.”

He can’t suppress his grin. “It’s a date.”

“Not a date,” she corrects.

“I look forward to it all the same.”

She sits up. Her eyes somehow catch light in the dark room. “Then we should try and get some sleep.”

He watches her curiously as she kneels beside him.

“Lie back in corpse pose,” she instructs.

“Look, I don’t know what you get up to with your forensic pathology buddies, but I’m not that kinda g—” He’s stopped by a finger to his lips.

“Close your eyes,” she says in the same voice she uses when teaching.

The bed shifts. Her breath tickles his hairline.

“Relax your scalp,” she whispers before planting a soft kiss. “Relax your forehead.” Another kiss, lower. “Relax your eyelids.”

She works her way down his body, naming his muscles in preparation for a kiss. When he asks if he’s helping her study for her exams, she gives him a wry smile and nips at his hip bones.

He knows he’s not going to be sleeping any time soon when she tells him to relax his anything-but-relaxed cock, but it doesn’t matter. Tonight, he will fall asleep in her arms. And with her, he’s immune to nightmares.


End file.
